


The Little Things That Give You Away

by annathaema (moony)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Anxiety, Coping, Established Relationship, Family Feels, Friendship, Hobbies, Knitting, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 08:44:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13454640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moony/pseuds/annathaema
Summary: "S'fine," says Jack, trying to keep it hidden from Shitty. "I wasn't really doing anything, just-""Knitting!"--Jack has an unusual hobby, but it helps.





	The Little Things That Give You Away

**Author's Note:**

> This started life as a 5+1 story but in the end it decided to do its own thing. So the structure might seem familiar. I think it turned out okay, anyway!
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta team, Miranda and Fiona.
> 
> Title via U2.

 

 

Jack is six when he breaks his ankle. He's playing a game of shinny with Papa on the pond behind their house, and while he's pretty good at controlling his feet on the ice he's not really so good at stopping yet, so he crashes right into a tree at the edge of the pond. In addition to the ankle, he has a black eye and one of his baby teeth has been knocked out.

"You look like you survived one heck of a scrum, kiddo," says Papa once they're home from the hospital and Jack's foot is encased in a tiny boot. "Let's get you settled in. Maybe a Babar video?"

Jack nods, so Papa installs him on the couch with his blanket, Pierre the penguin, an ice pack, and a dose of Children's Tylenol. He also wraps Jack in his old Canadiens sweatshirt, the one that smells like coffee and aftershave. "That'll keep you comfy. Want KD for lunch?"

Jack nods. Papa goes into the kitchen and Jack snuggles down into his blanket and the sweatshirt. It's nice, he thinks. His ankle really hurts, but he's warm and safe and Papa is here and Babar is on TV. Papa has already said he doesn't have to go to school tomorrow. It's all so exciting to Jack; he's never been _injured_ before.

Except two days later he's already climbing the walls. He's lost interest in cartoons, he's read all his books, and the only other thing he can think of that would distract him is playing hockey, and he can't do that. He doesn't know _what_ to do; the next few weeks stretch out empty in front of him. It's overwhelming and scary.

Three nights after he hurts himself, Mémère comes to stay with Jack since Papa has a game and Maman is making a movie in California. Jack doesn't mind—he loves Mémère and she's a welcome distraction from boredom and the pain in his ankle. He's excited and practically bouncing himself off the couch as she walks in the door. "Bonsoir, Mémère!"

"Oh, look at you," she says. Mémère does not speak English, or maybe she doesn't want to, Jack isn't sure. Either way, her rapid-fire Quebecois is a workout for Jack's still-developing bilingual skills. "You've gone and damaged yourself."

"I broke my ankle," says Jack. He wiggles his toes and winces. "Hurts."

"I bet it does," says Mémère. She sits beside him and sets her big IGA shopping bag on the floor. She takes it wherever she goes, and Jack wonders desperately what's in it. Once he saw her pull a whole squash out of it at Thanksgiving, and another time there was an actual rabbit (named Jasper, as it turns out). But he's never asked what else is in there; Maman always tells him it's not good to be too nosy. "How? No, wait. Let me guess. Hockey?"

Jack nods. "Yeah. I was going too fast."

Mémère ruffles his hair. "You are always going too fast," she says. Jack doesn't know what she means, he's not going fast _right now_ , or why she sounds so sad when she says it. He looks over at Papa, who smiles.

"Make sure you watch the game, kiddo," he says, shrugging on his coat. "You're my good luck charm."

Jack holds his hand out for a high five. "Kick their ass, Papa!"

Mémère gasps. " _Jacques Laurent_ ," she says, and Jack shrinks away from her until his papa laughs and squeezes his shoulder, keeping him from slithering off the couch and limping to his room. He ducks his head and refuses to look at her.

" _Maman_ ," says Papa. "I've never told you this story?"

"There's a _story_ behind why my grandchild apparently swears like a sailor?" She purses her lips. "This I've got to hear."

Papa sits down so Jack crawls into his lap and pushes his face against Papa's shoulder. He knows this story, he's heard it a million times. His dad loves to tell it when he's on TV:

"Jack was maybe a year and a half, maybe two? Alicia knows. Anyway, it's the early 1990s and we're playing Boston and before I leave for the airport I go to kiss Jack goodbye, and he waves his fat little hand in the air and says, clear as day, 'kick their ass, Papa!'"

Jack peers out at Mémère. She looks like she's swallowed a lemon. "And where," she says, "did he pick _that_ up."

Papa shrugs. "No idea. Alicia doesn't know, either. But then I scored four goals and for that entire season I got Jack to say it before a game whenever I could. And we won almost all of those games." Papa laughs. "The boys still say we didn't win the Cup that year was because Jack had strep throat and couldn't talk."

Mémère snorted. "That is the biggest load of horseshit I've ever heard."

"Oh, and you're asking me where he picked it up?"

"He's not a parrot, Robert!" Her voice is sharp. Jack slides away again until he's pressed against the opposite end of the couch. Mémère looks over at him. "Jacques? Jacky?"

"M'sorry," he says softly. He curls in on himself. "It's good luck. Papa said."

Papa reaches over and pulls him close again. "Jack, no one is mad at you. Not me, not Mémère. You're my good luck charm, okay? I can't do this without you."

"Okay." Jack peeks at Mémère. She pats the spot next to her on the sofa and smiles.

"I'm sorry, miel, I was just surprised. Those are big words coming from a little mouth."

Jack comes over to sit by her. His papa gets up and kisses the top of his head. He's gone a few minutes later. Mémère puts on the TV and changes it from Big Comfy Couch to the hockey channel, but she turns the sound down low.

"Jacky, your papa said you're going to be stuck like this for a few more weeks," she says. "He also said you're bored out of your mind. Yes?"

Jack nods. "Yeah."

"Okay." Mémère reaches over and drags her IGA bag over. Jack gasps a little. He's going to find out what's in the bag! He leans forward and watches eagerly as she reaches in and pulls out—yarn?

"Yarn?"

Mémère nods. "Yarn. Let's teach you how to knit."

Jack frowns. "That's girl stuff."

"It is _not_  'girl stuff' and I am going to tell your mother you said that," says Mémère. Jack slumps and crosses his arms across his chest in defiance. "Did you know," Mémère goes on to say, "that during the Great War, everyone—men, women, and children—knitted for the soldiers? And the soldiers themselves learned how to knit?"

Jack perks up. "Really?"

"Knitting is for everyone and anyone can learn it. And you're going to learn it. God knows you've got the coordination, you are exactly like your papa." She fishes around in the bag and pulls out a pair of long wooden sticks, and then another, smaller pair that she hands to him. "Pick a color and let's go."

At first Jack has trouble watching what Mémère is doing and trying to follow the path of Papa's jersey on the screen, but by the second period he's all but ignoring the game in favor of mastering garter stitch.

"Mémère, look!" He holds up a neat square of yellow. "Is that good? It's good, right?"

"It is good!" She inspects it carefully. "See here? Pull the yarn a little tighter and it won't do that." She hands it back to him. "That is my only bit of advice, darling. And don't worry, I still do that sometimes, too."

Jack nods. A roar goes up from the TV and they both look up at the knot of black and yellow tussling on the ice. And right in the thick of it is a Zimmermann jersey.

"Papa." Jack groans. "He's gonna be all messed up when he gets home."

Mémère laughs. "Let me show you something a little harder. We can make it for your papa when he comes home, yes?"

Jack nods eagerly. He's still not sure what knitting actually is, and watching Mémère's fingers flicker like the blur of a bird's wings is mesmerizing, like magic. Jack wants to make magic too.

Mémère takes out a ball of very purple yarn, and they get to work.

—

By the time Papa comes home Jack is so tired he can barely keep his eyes open. Mémère is already asleep, sitting up in the armchair by the window. Jack doesn't want to wake her so he hasn't gone to bed. Besides, he wants to see Papa. He wants to be sure he's okay.

Papa comes through the door and Jack sits up. "Hi!" he says, in something approaching a whisper. "Hi Papa!"

"Jacky, what are you doing up?" Papa comes over and catches sight of Mémère. "Ah. Okay, kiddo. Let's get you to bed."

Jack lets himself be picked up. He frowns. "Papa, your face is beat up again."

"You should see the other guy."

"What?"

Papa laughs and taps the end of Jack's nose. "It's okay, son. I'm fine."

Jack isn't convinced. "I made you this." He shoves a lumpy pile of yarn in Papa's face. "It's for peas."

"What?" Papa looks confused as he takes it and holds it where he can see.

"Peas!" Jack points at the kitchen. "The bag of peas in the freezer! You put it in there and you can put it on your face."

Papa raises his eyebrows at Jack. "You made this?"

"Mémère helped."

"Huh." Papa smirks. "You know what would be cool? One of these but big enough to fit the Cup."

Jack's eyes go wide. "That's really big!" he says.

"Ah, I think you could do it," says Papa. "One stitch at a time, kiddo."

There's movement from the armchair. "Oh, Bobby, when did you get in?" asks Mémère, rising from the chair with a yawn and a stretch. She follows them down the hall. "Jack, why didn't you wake me? It's after eleven."

"You were sleeping." Jack clings to his papa. "I gave him it, Mémère!"

"Oh?" Mémère winks at him. "And what did he think?"

"I think my son will one day knit rings around you," says Papa. "You've created your own enemy. You're Obi-Wan to his Vader."

"You never make any sense," says Mémère. "I'm going to bed. Goodnight, my loves." She kisses Jack's forehead and Papa's cheek and toddles off to the room she usually stays in. Papa carries Jack to his room and sets him down on the bed.

"Which pajamas?" he asks, digging in Jack's bureau.

"Transformers," says Jack. "Did you win, Papa?"

Papa looks at him. "We did," he says. He sounds surprised. "You didn't watch?"

Jack immediately panics. "I did!" he says. "Except Mémère was teaching me and I couldn't watch at the same time!"

Papa laughs. "Calm down, kiddo. It's fine. I'm glad you had a good time with Mémère. And you learned something pretty cool, too."

"Yeah." Jack waves at the ice pack holder in Papa's hand. "You like it?"

"I do." Papa kisses the top of his head. "Let's get you ready for bed. We can call Maman when you're done."

Jack nods. While they brush Jack's teeth Papa tells him about the goals he scored and the fight (the other team had started it), but Jack's only half paying attention. Normally he would be riveted, but he's already thinking about what he wants to make next and how fast he can learn it.

He goes to sleep that night wondering if he _could_ make something big enough for the Cup. Wouldn't _that_ make Papa proud, which is all Jack wants.

That night, his dreams are spun in purple.

—

Jack comes to find out, over the next few weeks, that knitting is definitely not as good as hockey, but it keeps Jack busy until his ankle is better and he can play again. As soon as she sees Jack with his skates Mémère looks sad for a moment but then she's smiling and helping him put on his coat.

"Mémère, can you teach me more knitting?" he asks. She stops zipping him up and looks at him with a surprised smile that makes Jack feel warm all over. "I want to finish my scarf. And I want to make socks, and a hat and can you teach me to make mittens and-"

"Yes, yes!" Mémère laughs and catches his hands in hers. They're big and warm and soft. "I will teach you whatever you want to know, my love. What would you like me to show you?"

Jack bounces in place. " _Everything_."

—

Jack is three weeks into his freshman year when his roommate barges into their dorm room one afternoon even though he's supposed to a lecture in _American Capitalism_ or something, Jack wasn't really listening. He's sitting on his bed hunched over his current project when the door flies open and someone tumbles into the room.

"Ah!" Jack starts and almost falls off his bed. "Shit."

"Oops, sorry!" The guy sounds sheepish and actually sincere about it. "Shoulda knocked first!"

Jack looks up. His roommate - _B. Knight_ on the roster, though no one seems to know what the B stands for - has got the beginnings of a promising mustache and bright green eyes, shrewd but friendly. They've had a few conversations here and there but, despite the guy's better efforts to get to know him Jack admittedly hasn't really given him much to go on. He doesn't mean to be so reticent, but he figures it's better this way. Most of the campus knows who he is and how he ended up at Samwell (though they don't know why he's at Samwell, and that's fine by Jack), and there's no chance in hell that this guy plays hockey and _doesn't_ know, and Jack just does not want to deal with that right now. He just wants to go to class, keep his head down, play good hockey, and not fuck it all up again. He's learned a hard lesson about letting people get too close. It's just not worth it.

"S'fine," says Jack, trying desperately to pick up everything up off the floor and keep it hidden at the same time. "I wasn't really doing anything important, just-"

"Knitting!" His roommate - Shitty, the guy calls himself _Shitty_ \- catapults onto Jack's sad little twin bed and arranges himself against the pillows. He's done this before, but at least he's wearing pants this time. "My grandma used to knit, like, everything and anything. If it existed, she could either knit it or knit something for it."

"My mémère taught me," says Jack quietly, trying to salvage his project. "It's good for, y'know. Stress." He doesn't want to go into detail but he figures it's pretty obvious why someone like him would want to avoid stress.

Shitty nods and to his credit doesn't look the least bit judgemental. "Yeah, I dig it. I think Granny wanted to teach me but my shit-ass dad said it wasn't _manly_ or some kind of garbage fucking oh-no-my-fragile-masculinity bullshit. And then there's you, like, I bet when you cry your tears are pure testosterone." Jack snorts. "And you're sitting indoors on a gorgeous Friday afternoon and knitting a- What is that? Is it gonna be a hat?"

Jack shrugs, holding it up. It doesn't look like much, not yet. But the purple seems brighter in the sunlight filtering through the windows. "Not yet," he says, because it's as good an answer as any. "S'getting there." He fiddles with the needles, tapping them against each other. "I only picked up knitting again after- uh, I started again last year, but Mémère isn't around anymore to help." He makes a face. "It's hard to remember without her walking me through it."

"Sorry, brah." Shitty moves over to sit right beside him and rest his head on Jack's shoulder. Jack stiffens in a way that is probably very obvious, but Shitty doesn't even flinch. "Granny Tilley left for the astral plane many moons ago, no forwarding address. I miss her Saturday night clamboils like you would not believe. She would put whole dang lobsters in there and if that isn't fuckin' New England enough for you I'm sure we can find you an intersection with a Dunkin' Donuts on each corner."

"There's a place near my parents' house with five Timmies in as many kilometers." When Shitty laughs - an endearing honking sound - Jack relaxes a little. He's not really sure what to make of Shitty, but the guy seems determined to befriend him and Jack thinks he might actually be okay with letting him. He hasn't had a real friend since Kent, and that's not something he really wants to dwell on. A new friend, Jack thinks, one that without all that _weight_ , might be really nice.

He holds up his work-in-progress. "Want to learn?" he asks, a little shyly. "I'm not a great teacher, but-"

Shitty touches Jack's lips with his index finger and Jack immediately stops talking because he has no idea what is happening right now. "Shh," says Shitty. "Hush now, little baby ermine. Let's try that again. Ask me if I'd like to learn to knit, and do it without the self-deprecation."

Jack bats his hand away. "Do you, uh. Want to learn to knit," he says. It's not really a question. "I, uh, can teach you a few things?"

"Better!" Shitty beams at him. "Yes, Jacques Toulouse Zimmermann, I would love to learn to knit."

"That's not my middle name."

"Matters not!" Shitty scoots even closer. "Show me your wooly witchcraft, friendo."

Jack finds himself grinning in spite of himself, shifting in place so that Shitty can lean his chin on Jack's shoulder as Jack finds his place again.

"Okay," he says, fitting the needles to his fingers. "This is how you do a knit stitch."

—

A month later, Shitty gleefully brings him a lurid green beer cozy. Jack's surprised to find that he's kind of proud. When he tells Shitty as much Shitty beams and kisses him on the temple, as though he's the one congratulating _Jack_ on a job well done. It leaves Jack feeling bewildered but also strangely happy in a way he can't explain. He decides not to think too hard on it when Shitty demands Jack teach him to knit a jockstrap, and Jack realizes that maybe—maybe—he doesn't _have_ to do this alone.

Shitty stays.

—

"Oh, Jack!" Maman pulls a pair of only slightly wonky mittens out of the gift bag. They're blue - her favorite color - edged in purple, and he'd managed to do what was for him a pretty complicated pattern with only a couple of mistakes. He knows she won't care, though. She's his mother, it's part of the job description not to care about little mistakes. Jack's just lucky that she forgives him for the big ones, too.

"You like them?" he asks. He's pretty sure he already knows the answer, but sometimes he likes to hear praise that doesn't have to do with hockey.

"I do!" She slips them on and claps her hands together like a seal. "I lost one of my gloves at the Dufresne thing the other night, so these will come in handy." Her normally brilliant smile, the one that still sells movie tickets and magazine covers, turns lopsided and goofy. "Hand-y." She claps her mittens at him. "See what I did there?"

Jack sighs. "Stop hanging around Papa so much."

"I've tried, but he keeps finding his way back into the house." Maman reaches awkwardly into the bag again. "Oh, this is lovely!" She pulls out the scarf Jack has spent most of the semester making—the one that had seemed like it might take the rest of his life to finish. It's the same color as the mittens, with a flourish of purple at either end. "Oh, this looks like something Mémère would have made!"

Jack preens a little. "I still have the one she made me when I was a kid," he says. "I copied it, sort of."

"It's great, darling. You did a good job." She wraps it around her head and neck until the only things showing are her eyes. "How's that?" she asks, voice muffled. "I think I could actually go outside right now even though it's, what, minus twenty out there or something?"

"You do this every winter," says Jack, rising to clean up the gift bag and tissue paper. "You live in Canada. You've lived here for years. In the winter it is very cold here. You _know_ this."

"Meh." Maman unwinds the scarf and drapes it lovingly over the back of the couch. "I think I've almost convinced your dad to move to Bermuda. I'm so close, Jack. I can feel it."

He grins. "That's just the frostbite."

She rolls her eyes.

"Listen kid, you spend a significant amount of your time in Los Angeles and then move to freaking _Hoth_ and see how you do." She gets up and stretches. "Tell me about your friends at school."

Jack sighs. "The team's good," he says. "Strong defense this year-."

"Jack." Maman comes over and puts both hands on his shoulders. "I don't give a shit about how the team looks this season. I don't care about stats or plays or anything else right now. Tell me about your _friends_."

"Um. Well, Shitty—he's great," says Jack. He wants to shake her off but he doesn't. He just slumps and tries to shrink into himself a little. "Johnson's kind of weird but okay, I guess." He shrugs. "I..." Jack has no idea how to finish that sentence, so he doesn't. Maman sighs.

"When I was in college," she says. "I had a hell of a time adjusting, and I had _no_ friends for most of my first year. I spent so much time at shoots and at auditions that I had no idea how to relate to anyone who wasn't in the industry."

Jack blinks. "Really?" he asks. "People like you, though."

"And people will like you, too." She smiles. "Some of the greatest people are introverts, Jack. Like your dad."

"The only person I've ever met who is louder than Dad is Shitty," says Jack incredulously. He grew up watching his dad at parties and barbecues and doing interviews. His dad's the first one there and the last to leave. "He loves a crowd."

"You can be extroverted and still be an introvert, honey. Your dad is so painfully shy when it matters. Obviously he can turn it on for the cameras but do you even know how terrified he was to ask me for my number?"

Jack snickers. "He loves to tell that story," he says.

"Oh, but he always tells it _wrong_." She laughs. "Listen, when he tells you he was 'nervous' when he asked me out, what he really means is 'I threw up in a potted plant in the hallway in the middle of the party before I could get it together long enough to talk to her'."

Jack stares at her. "Why have you _never_ told me this?"

Maman nods eagerly. "He went to the hotel gift shop and bought toothpaste and a toothbrush and brushed his teeth in the restroom before he even came up to me."

Jack can't stop laughing, this might be the greatest moment of his life. His dad is always so cool and calm and collected. To hear that Bad Bob Zimmermann puked in a bush because he was scared to talk to a girl is like Jack's birthday and Christmas all at the same time.

"He is going to _hate_ you for telling me," he says, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. He hasn't had a real belly laugh in ages. He'd forgotten how good they hurt.

His mother flutters her hand in the air dismissively. "He'll survive," she says. "My point is, honey, that no one has it a hundred percent together one hundred percent of the time. A lot of people think I'm beautiful and glamorous—I am indeed those things, but not all the time and certainly not without a team of assistants and stylists to keep me from wearing nothing but sweatpants and eating Taco Bell while watching Degrassi reruns _all the time_."

His mother puts an arm around him. It's a little awkward; she's pretty tall but still shorter than he is so he has to stoop a little so that she can lean into him. She smells clean, like shampoo and her favorite perfume. It's familiar and comforting in a way that almost nothing else is, and Jack closes his eyes and breathes in.

"Make some friends," she says softly, giving him a squeeze that makes his legs wobble. Jack is solid muscle but whenever his mother hugs him he feels all loose and noodly. "Get to know your team off the ice. Your dad played better when he liked the guys he played with. But that's not the only reason to put yourself out there, sweetheart. You need something other than hockey to do."

"Okay." Jack frowns. "I don't know how to do that," he says, because he really doesn't. He'd had friends as a kid, sort of. They'd been the kids of other hockey players, the only kids outside school that he'd ever really known. He hadn't had to try with them; they were all friends by default. It worked for a long time, until it didn't, until Kent.

Maman lets him go and picks up her new mittens. She puts them back on and waves at him.

"Let's try the basics," she says. "Here." She holds out a purple paw. "Hi, I'm Alicia."

Jack hesitates. He feels stupid and clumsy in the face of her sincere efforts to help. But he looks at her eager expression and sighs in defeat.

"Hi," he says, reaching for and grasping her hand. It's warm and scratchy from the wool. "I'm Jack."

Maman beams and grips his hand tight for a moment before letting go. "That's it," she says. "Start there. The rest will come along." She pats his cheek. "So, want to put on sweatpants and eat Taco Bell and watch Degrassi reruns?"

"Yes," says Jack, nodding enthusiastically. "Yes I do."

"Come, then," she says, winding the scarf around her elegant neck. "I'll drive."

He watches her wander off to find her coat and keys and mulls over what she'd told him. _The basics. Hi, I'm Jack. Start there. It'll come._

He could do this. He could be normal and make friends and be _normal_.

"Jack!" she bellows from the entryway. "You are the only thing standing between me and a big ol' pile of tacos! Move your butt or get left behind!"

Maman believes in him. He knows his father believes in him.

It's just up to Jack, now.

—

"Bittle." Jack catches up to him as they're leaving Faber. "Where's your hat? Don't you get cold at eighteen degrees?"

"Well, who wouldn't be at eighteen degrees!" Bittle does up his coat. "I'd like to see even _your_ Canadian behind survive that."

Jack snorts. "Eighteen degrees _Celsius_ , Bittle."

"Oh. What is that in Freedom Degrees?"

"Six guns and an eagle," says Jack. Bittle giggles and Jack grins. "I think it's around sixty-five?"

"We call that January where I come from." When they step outside Bittle shrinks into his coat, seeming even smaller somehow. "Good _Lord_ , this is hell. I'm in hell, it has frozen over and the devil's doing quad Salchows on the river Styx."

Jack unwinds his scarf and dumps it on Bittle's head. "Here," he says. "I'd rather not hear your teeth chattering all the way back to the Haus."

Bittle fights his way out from under the scarf and looks like he's going to throw it at him when he pauses. "This is the softest thing since kittens," he says, touching the scarf to his cheek. "Where did you _get_ this?"

It crosses Jack's mind to lie and throw out some response, like _my mother sent it_ or _I found it on sale at Target_ , but instead what comes out is "I made it."

Bittle stops walking. Jack stops too. "What?" he asks. Bittle just keeps staring at him. "What," he repeats, feeling a little unsettled because Bittle is _looking_ at him like it's the first time he's ever seen Jack. "Bittle, _what_."

"Sorry!" Bittle clutches the scarf and moves back a step. "It's just—really? You, uh."

"My mémère taught me," he says. "It's good for stress."

Bitty smiles carefully, like he's afraid he might spook Jack. It would be a little funny if it didn't make Jack feel uncomfortable. It reminds him of the way his parents were jumpy around him in the first few weeks after the overdose. He didn't like seeing it from them and seeing it now from Bittle makes his stomach feel swoopy and weird.

"My moomaw taught me how to bake," says Bittle, oblivious to Jack's discomfort. To be fair, Jack has had a _lot_ of practice hiding discomfort. "Also good for stress."

"You bake all the time, though." He watches Bittle struggle to wrap the scarf, since the thing is about as long as he is tall. "Look- Wait- Here." Jack pries it out of Bittle's hands and doubles the scarf, looping it around Bittle's next and tucking in the loose ends. It's the way Maman used to do his scarves. "Okay?"

Bittle noses at the softness draped around his face. "Thanks," he says, big brown eyes peering up at Jack from beyond a sea of red alpaca. "I bake all the time because I like to. Do you knit only when you're stressed?"

"No," says Jack. They pass by one of the bigger hills on campus. Jack can see Ransom and Holster trying their best to sled down it using a flattened cardboard box. It's not going very well but they don't seem to care, preferring to shove each other into snow banks—Jack can hear Holster's booming laugh from across the street and Ransom's frustrated screeching. He wonders what it would be like to have that kind of friendship with someone. Even he and Kent never came close to whatever Ransom and Holster have. Being lovers did not mean total symbiosis with each other.

 _Thank God_ , he thinks.

"Jack?"

"What?" He looks over and Bittle is looking at him expectantly. "Oh. Uh, no. I like to do it. It's…" His voice trails off and he looks back at the sledding hill. "I don't know. It's. Uh."

"Not hockey?" Bittle offers. His voice is tentative, as though he expects Jack to snap at him. Jack hates it. He hates that look on Bittle's face and he knows he's the one to blame. He'd spent most of Bittle's frog year and a good part of this one putting it there.

Besides, Bittle is absolutely right.

"Yeah," says Jack slowly. "Not hockey. I like that I can make things out of just some yarn and some free time. Something you can hold and touch and take with you and wear. I love hockey, but you can't give it to your mom for her birthday, y'know? It's nice to feel like you can do something else with your hands besides hold a stick. Like, uh, holding two sticks, haha." Jack winces. _Jesus, shut up Jack._

Bittle however laughs softly. Jack relaxes a little.

"I do know," says Bittle. The hunted expression starts to melt slowly off his face. He gives Jack a little smile. "I loved skating, thought maybe I would be happy giving my parents medals and trophies, but the first time I made my mother an entire pie by myself she cried more than she did when I won Junior Regionals. I figured out real fast that baking and feeding people was much higher on my list of priorities than, y'know, the World Championships. I still skated, but baking was a lot better than bein' nervous about competitions all the time."

Jack thinks Bittle doesn't _really_ know what true anxiety is, but he also knows that not everyone has to have all eyes in the sports world trained on him in order to feel a little unstable. Bittle is a good skater—a pretty great skater in Jack's opinion, he's seen tape—and could probably have gone on to be a champion. He might even have ended up at the Olympics. Jack wonders what happened to bring Bittle to hockey, out of Georgia and all the way up north to Massachusetts, to Samwell. Jack wants to ask. It would be so _easy_ to just _ask_. Like they're friends.

But they aren't friends. Jack's an asshole and Bittle's scared of him. They are not friends.

Jack clears his throat. "My mémère told me once that she used to knit during my dad's games when he was a kid," he says, pushing through his reluctance to share any personal information with anyone. He can do this, he can _be a normal person_. Plus, it's Bittle. "She said she had to have something to do with her hands because otherwise she'd have gotten kicked out of the rink for cussing out the coaches."

Bittle barks a laugh. "Oh, she sounds like a real firecracker!" he says. "Your mama's side or your dad's?"

"Dad's," says Jack. "Mémère died when I was in high school. Oma's—Mom's side—is still alive, though. She lives in New Mexico." That's more information than he'd intended to share but Bittle looks surprised and pleased, so either Jack's getting better at this human interaction thing or Bittle's just that easy to talk to.

Maybe it's both. Jack thinks (hopes) that it might be both.

"Why'd you quit skating?" he ventures. Nothing gained, after all. "I mean, if you want to talk about it," he adds quickly when Bittle doesn't immediately respond. Panic starts to set in. "Shit, sorry. I— Forget it." He tugs his toque down over his ears and starts to walk a little faster.

Bittle reaches out and lays a hand on his arm. "Goodness, Jack! Slow down! Give a boy a chance to answer before you scamper off!" He waits until Jack's slowed down again and falls into step beside him. "I didn't really quit, not officially anyway. We moved and I had to leave my coach behind. I could have kept training, but I would have had to either stay in Columbus and live away from my parents, or find a new coach and then commute to Atlanta every day." Bittle huffs. "Ain't nobody got time for that."

"Fair enough," says Jack. "But why hockey?"

"At first it was 'cause it kept me on the ice," says Bittle. "I mean, we moved to Madison the summer in the middle of 8th grade. I didn't have any friends, so the only thing I could think of that would keep me on the ice and might result in a friend or two was hockey. So I joined up."

Jack smiles a little. "And?"

"I _loved_ it." Bittle bounces a little as he walks. "I love it, Jack!"

"Me too," says Jack, wincing as soon as he says it. _You said that ten minutes ago_ , he thinks to himself. "I mean. Uh."

Bittle just grins at him. "I think we're _all_ aware of how much you love hockey, Mister Zimmermann," he says slyly. "If the 6am practices are anything to go by."

Jack hip-checks him, not hard enough to knock him into the snow but enough to make Bittle stumble a little and laugh. "The 6am practices are so we don't get our asses handed to us by Quinnipiac next week," says Jack. "They're playing good hockey right now, but I know we're better."

Bittle groans. "You said the exact same thing about MSU last week," he says, his voice taking on a whiney tinge. "Running suicides before dawn does not create a positive work environment, Jack."

"I thought you had to get up early for skating practice." Jack spots the Haus in the near distance, windows glowing warm through the gloom of twilight. "One of my cousins skates. He says his coach drags him out of bed at 5:30am every day."

"Yep," nods Bittle. "Katya did the same exact thing and I hated every second of it. I don't know how many times I woke up crying when my alarm went off while it was still dark out."

"You still did it, though," says Jack, smiling at him. "And you come to every 6am practice."

"Well, yeah," says Bittle. "Of course. We all do."

"Yeah." Jack nods. It's funny, at first he'd thought he and Bittle had nothing in common beyond hockey but he now knows that Bittle, having spent most of his life as a competitive athlete in one way or another, probably gets it more than anyone else on the team. It's surprising, but more importantly, Jack feels himself relax a little bit more.

"Which is why," he says, smirking a little, "when we're through with them Quinnipiac will be just a blue and gold smear on the ice."

Bittle laughs, bright and clear as windchimes. "Absolutely."

They've reached the Haus but Jack doesn't want to go inside, not yet, instead pausing on the front steps and leaning against the wall next to the door. The others had beat them here; from the living room there's what sounds like someone playing a video game while other people shout unhelpful things at the screen. Fat white flakes drift down over the front lawn, blanketing everything in the almost unsettling silence of snowfall.

"It's sure pretty," says Bittle, gazing down the street as twilight falls over campus. The street lights have come on, and the lax house has a single strand of Christmas lights, strung haphazardly along the edges of the roof that flicker on and off. It makes them look like they're dancing. "It's cold as blazes out here, but it's pretty."

"It's going to get even colder in a couple of days," says Jack. "Why don't you hang on to that scarf? For now."

"Jack, I couldn't—"

"Keep it, Bittle." Jack pushes the front door open. "I can always make another."

Which he does, along with a hat and some hand warmers, from the bag of fancy purple yarn Johnson had given him shortly before he'd graduated with a cryptic _anything I can do to keep the theme going and push the plot forward_. He'd had other uses for it, but it's the only yarn he has right now. Jack goes with it; the color will suit Bittle anyway, he thinks.

Three weeks after their conversation, Jack leaves the scarf, mittens, and toque in a reusable Stop & Shop bag outside Bittle's door. The following night, Jack finds his own scarf folded up neatly on his bed along with a plate of peanut butter cookies and a Post-It featuring a crudely-drawn rabbit and a scribbled _Thank you, Jack! —ERB_ in the same loopy handwriting that's on the Tupperware in the fridge.

Jack doesn't know why he feels compelled to keep the note but he does anyway, slipping it between the pages of his dogeared copy of _Ghost Soldiers_.

Maybe they _are_ friends, now.

—

Jack's day with the Cup falls on a Sunday. He'd thought about spending it at Samwell with the team, but with Lardo and Shitty in the D.R. and Ransom in Toronto for a wedding, everyone's a little scattered at the moment. And since there's no sense in going to Samwell without them, Jack instead decides it would be just as much fun to spend it with the kids at Hasbro. Jack always volunteers for hospital visits; the kids don't judge him, don't compare him to his father - most of them don't even know who Bad Bob is. They see Jack and think he's cool and Jack _eats it up_ , because he's never been cool before and turns out it's a pretty fun feeling.

So Jack reaches out to Hasbro. They're thrilled, and before Jack knows it everything's been planned and scheduled: TV cameras will come to Jack's apartment in the morning to film him getting into the van with the Cup and do a quick interview on the way to the hospital. Once there, Jack will carry the Cup from room to room for pictures with the kids. Then there'll be a big gathering in the hospital's rec room, where all the mobile kids will pose with Jack and the Cup.

For some reason, that's when Jack makes a spontaneous and probably rash decision.

"Uh, George?"

Georgia pauses in rattling off the itinerary. "Hm?"

Jack bites his lower lip. "Uh, after the big meet and greet, can I have some time to do something? With the Cup, with the kids there?"

"Well, sure. I think we could do something. How much time would you need?"

"Maybe twenty minutes? Half an hour? It's not—" Jack stops. He doesn't know how to explain because there's no way for Georgia to understand. "I have something important to do and maybe, uh, it might be cool for the kids, too."

Georgia lets out a long-suffering but fond sigh. "Jack, I'm pretty sure we can wrangle half an hour for the Stanley Cup-winning MVP to do something cool for some sick kids."

That makes Jack laugh. "Thanks, George," he says. "I promise, it's not weird. Maybe a little weird. But maybe not?"

"For Pete's sake, Jack," Georgia sounds less fond and more exasperated. "I'm pretty sure nothing you'd want to do is going to upset anyone."

Jack grimaces. "Okay," he says. "Got it."

"Okay. So, we'll see you on the 13th, yes?"

"Yes."

"Oh, the hospital would only agree to one guest." He can hear the disappointment in her voice. "Sorry, Jack. I know you'd want them all there."

Jack swallows. "Only one?"

"Yeah, sorry." Georgia clears her throat. "Bitty'll enjoy it, though."

Jack nods despite Georgia not being able to see him. "Yeah," he says, before they hang up.

Jack spends two days in torment before he cracks, one morning as Bitty dithers in the kitchen over what to make for breakfast.

"I could make eggs Benedict but I am _way_ too sleepy—and let's face facts here, too dang lazy—to attempt a decent Hollandaise right now. So I think maybe avocado toast? I made some oatmeal sunflower bread yesterday that turned out dandy."

Jack comes over and stands behind Bitty, wraps his arms around him. "Hey, Bud."

Bitty stills and reaches up to wrap a hand around Jack's forearm. "What's up?" he asks, voice soft and gentle.

"Bits, I—" Jack pulls back and runs a hand over his face. "The hospital's only letting me bring one person," he says in a rush. "And I want-" He doesn't know how to just _say_ it, he's been so careful about not fucking things up, and what if this _does_ fuck things up? The Stanley Cup isn't worth that. But it's still something Jack has wanted since he was five years old, and that doesn't just _go away_.

He takes a deep breath. "Bits, it's just that—"

"Jack,  _honey_." Bitty twists around and smiles up at him. "You're gonna have more days with the Cup, if y'all keep playing like you do. I'll take the next one, okay? I know who you need to spend this one with."

Jack studies him for any sign of hurt or betrayal. He finds only warmth and sincerity behind the prettiest eyes he's ever seen in his life. "Okay," he says, exhaling and slumping forward a little, leaning against Bitty. "Thanks, Bud."

"Wow, two 'Buds' in one morning, I feel like we just leveled up our relationship."

"Suddenly I am not upset that I can't bring you."

"Hey!"

—

Jack makes the call that night, once Bitty has gone to bed to read. Jack loves him but Bitty can really  _hover_ and Jack doesn't want the distraction. He'll just fill Bitty in on everything in the morning.

"Allo, Jack?" His dad yawns on the other end of the line. "Everything okay?"

"Allo, Papa," says Jack. "Did I wake you?"

"No, no. I'm not so old I'd be asleep at—" There's a pause. "—10pm. Geez, kid. Give a guy a break." Jack laughs. "So what's up? How's Bitty?"

"He's great. Hanging in there. He's the one who told me to call you."

"Oh?"

Jack clears his throat. "I want to you to come with me to the hospital."

"Oh. Oh!" There's a moment of silence on the other end. "Really?"

"Why do you sound so surprised?" Jack frowns. "You're my dad. You helped me get here. Of course I want you there."

"Jack, I—" There's a suspicious sniffle. "I figured you'd thought it would be—you know, overshadowing. It's your day, kiddo. It's supposed to be about you."

"No, it's going to be about a bunch of cool kids who get to hang out with the Stanley Cup," says Jack. "It'd be great for them to have both of us there, though."

"None of those kids will know who the hell I am," says his dad, laughing, and Jack smiles. "But I'm happy to come down. It'll be great. But, ah, wouldn't Bitty like to go?"

"I thought so," says Jack. "And, uh, I sort of stalled for a couple of days and then tried to tell him how sorry I was that I wasn't going to invite him, but he basically handed me my phone and told me to call you. And to stop being an idiot."

"I swear to God, if you don't marry him I am going to root for the Devils."

Jack rolls his eyes. "No, you won't." The only team his dad hates more than the Devils are the Patriots.

"Okay, no I won't," says his dad. "But seriously, now."

"Starting to reconsider the invitation," says Jack, pinching the bridge of his nose. "If Bits won't go I can still ask Shitty."

"Okay, okay." His dad snickers. "I'm sorry. I'll leave you alone. I'll take the jet down Saturday morning and see you around noon?"

"I'll text you the schedule. Kiss Maman for me?"

"I will. Goodnight, Jack. See you soon."

Once they've hung up, Jack plugs in his phone and settles into bed next to Bitty, who rolls over and shoves his nose into Jack's side. Jack laughs softly and shifts so that his elbow isn't in Bitty's ear, and reaches over the side of the bed for a beat-up IGA bag. It's really getting too big for the bag, but Jack can't bring himself to switch to one of the bigger bags he's got stuffed under the kitchen sink. He tugs some purple yarn out and picks up his needles.

"Click click clickity click," mumbles Bitty after a little while. Jack stills and rests one hand on the top of Bitty's head.

"Sorry," he says, giving his hair a little skritch. Bitty wriggles. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," says Bitty. "Gotta use the little boy's room. Excuse me, sweetheart." Bitty slides away and out of the blankets, giving a soft _brr_ as soon as his feet hit the floor and scampers across the room to the bathroom.

"It's August," Jack calls out after him.

"And it's fifty degrees in here," shouts Bitty. "I can see my breath." There's the sound of the toilet flushing and the water running, and then Bitty is launching himself back into bed, yanking the covers around him. "This is ridiculous."

Jack picks up his phone. "It is eighteen degrees. See?" He holds it so that Bitty can see the readout on the Nest app.

Bitty stares at him.

" _It's about sixty-five,_ " says Jack, tossing his phone aside and digging his fingers under Bitty's arms. "I know you know how to do the math."

"Foreign numbers!" Bitty tries to shove him away, but he's laughing too hard to be effective. "They don't make sense!"

"America doesn't make sense," says Jack. He releases Bitty and rescues his needles from where they'd fallen on the floor. "You should go back to sleep. You have work in, like, five hours."

"I thought we're fixin' to fool around some," says Bitty, poking Jack in the center of his bare chest. "I mean, you got me all riled up and you're gonna just _abandon me_?"

Jack holds up his yarn. "Busy."

BItty stares at him again, mouth slightly open. Jack almost bursts out laughing. But Shitty didn't ban Jack from Haus poker night for nothing, so after a few moments Bitty breaks first. "You— Oh, you come _here_."

Jack goes, happily.

—

Once Bitty's asleep again, Jack picks up his needles. He knits until the sky gets light and his eyes so gritty he can't keep them open.

But his hands have stopped shaking, so there's that.

—

Two days later, on a gorgeous August morning, Jack and the Cup travel to Hasbro Children's Hospital. His dad's not with them in the van - he'd wanted the cameras and interviewer to be alone with Jack so that all the attention would be on him. His dad's taking a rental and meeting them there; Jack's a bit bummed about it - it would have been fun riding with his dad, the Cup between them - but he appreciates the gesture. His dad's right, anyway.

The visit is one of the best days of Jack's life. The kids hadn't been told what was going on so when Jack walks in to their rooms with the Stanley Cup in his arms their mouths fall open and—if they can—they start yelling, or laughing, or both. There's a lot of that, a lot of fistbumps and high fives and careful hugs. Jack and his dad pose for dozens of photos, give interviews while holding some of the littler ones, and listen to stories told in excited—and exhausted, Jack swallows hard—little voices. He makes sure not to miss a single kid.

When it's time for the meet and greet in the rec area Jack and his dad wait in a small meeting room that's been converted into a lounge. There's a bowl of M&Ms and Jack methodically picks out and eats all of the yellow ones.

"Nervous?" His dad comes over and starts picking out the red ones. "You're doing great, you do this all the time."

"Yeah, and I still get nervous sometimes." Jack doesn't mean for it to sound snippy, but it kind of does. "Sorry. I asked for some extra time at the end and that's what I'm nervous about."

"What is it?"

"You'll see. It'll either turn out okay, or I'll make a fool out of myself. But… 100% of the shots, blah blah."

His dad laughs. "Don't make fun, you got a boyfriend out of it."

Jack shakes his head and smiles. "Don't tell Uncle Wayne."

His dad smirks. "Too late." Jack groans.

"Hello?" An intern pokes her head into the room. "We're ready for you."

The meet and greet goes off without a hitch, which surprises the hell out of Jack. Not once does he stutter or stumble when he speaks, and he's able to answer all of the kids' questions in a way that seems to satisfy them. There's photos and interviews, and a big cardboard check for $50,000 from the Falconers that Jack and the Board Chairman pose with together. It's going better than Jack could have hoped for.

But as things start to wrap up Jack's palms start to sweat and he finds himself scrubbing them against his jeans. His dad must notice because he rests his hand on Jack's shoulder, just a gentle, reassuring presence. Jack glances at him and nods. His dad winks.

"Finally," says George, addressing the crowd. "Jack has a surprise for us, he says. Wonder what it could be?" She looks over to where Jack is standing, and when he doesn't move right away his dad gives him a little shove. Jack walks up to stand next to the Cup.

"Uh, hi. So, I wanted—uh." He clears his throat. "Let me start over, eh?" A soft laugh ripples through the room. "I don't know if you guys know this, but I get really worried a lot. Sometimes about nothing, or sometimes it's about one thing, and sometimes it's everything. Sometimes it's so bad I can't breathe, and sometimes it makes me feel sick, or sad, or angry. Sometimes I can even feel happy, but it's not the right kind of happy. Not a good happy. It's called anxiety, and lots of people have it. Grown-ups and kids.

"But it's real hard to feel that way all the time and do something like play hockey, so I have to find ways to handle my anxiety better. Some people read or play video games, or bake, or make sculptures, and I like all of those things, but they weren't the right kind of thing I needed. And then, when I was really small, my grandmother showed me something cool. Miranda?"

The intern from before comes over and hands Jack his battered old IGA bag. "Thanks," he says. He digs into the bag and pulls out an enormous bundle of multicolored yarn.

"Is that a blanket?" calls out a squeaky voice. Jack grins and shakes his head.

"No, but you're close." He throws it over his shoulder and brandishes his needles - Falconer colors, because why not. "Who knows what these are?"

There are a few responses this time. "Knitting needles!"

Jack nods. "Right! Do any of you know how to knit?" He counts three hands - two hospital staffers and one teenage girl in front. "How did you learn?" he asks her.

"Um, my dad taught me. He learned in the Army."

"Wow," says Jack, impressed. "That's great. And really interesting, because my mémère—that means grandma—told me that everyone learned to knit during WWI so they could make socks and things for the soldiers." Jack holds up the needles. "That's what made me want to learn, because I thought that was really cool.

"Okay, so who wants to know what this is?" Jack flutters the fabric at them, and all the kids raise their hands. "Any guesses?"

"A sweater for a elephant!"

"A sleeping bag!"

"A blanket for your car!"

"A parachute!"

Jack laughs. "All really good guesses, but not quite right. Watch this. Hey, Miranda - want to help?" He grins at her, hoping he really can _charm the pants off a goat_ , as Bitty says (what does it mean, Jack's afraid to ask).

She comes right over and once Jack shows her what to do, together they stretch the yarn over the top of the Stanley Cup and pull it down until the Cup is completely covered in a knitted purple cozy. The laughter grows as it's happening and by the time they're done the flashbulbs are blinding and everyone's clapping.

Once it dies down, Jack pats Miranda on the shoulder and she hurries back to her post. "I've been working on this since I was about seven years old," he says, and things fall quiet again. "After my dad told me I should make something big enough to cover the Cup. On the one hand, my dad's unwavering support and confidence that I would be a Cup winner like him has been essential to my career and I will always, always be grateful for that.

"On the other hand, that is a lot of pressure to put on a little kid."

There's an uncertain murmur through the crowd, and Jack resists the urge to look over at his dad.

"So I started knitting this a few months later. At first it was just random stitches I would do whenever I felt sad or anxious, but then it just got bigger and bigger as I got older and the worrying got worse. Every stitch is a worry that I don't think about anymore. It's a worry I took and made into something beautiful. And now I'm showing you all what twenty years of anxiety looks like. It's a lot of stitches, eh?

"And what's also important is to see the true impact mental illness has on a person. It's important to talk about that.

"And what's most important to me is that even after all these stitches, I'm still here. I'm still here and I'm standing next to the Stanley Cup I've wanted since I was five. And you know what? You might laugh at this but knitting helped me get here. It helped me deal with my anxiety. It kept me company, and it reminds me of my mémère so it makes me feel close to my family. And maybe there's something you could do that makes you feel the same way. My boyfriend bakes. One of our friends likes to weld things together." He smiles. "And, you know," says Jack, suddenly a little shy. "You guys are pretty much part of my family too, so would you, uh, like to learn a little knitting before we go? Maybe you'll like it?"

There's an immediate chorus of little (and not-so-little) voices: "Yeah!"

Jack laughs, relieved. "Okay," he says. "Let's get you all in a circle, so everyone can see, and I'll teach you the knit stitch."

Yeah, as days go, it's definitely in the top three.

—

Jack catches up to his dad in the hallway. "Papa?"

"Son, that was—" His dad reaches out and pulls him in for a hug. "You are the best thing I have _ever_ done, fuck hockey. Don't think for a second I meant to—"

"Papa, stop." Jack pushes him away gently. "I'm not mad at you. Not anymore, anyway. I was, for a while. But not now."

"You should be." His dad looks very tired. "But son, that— Everything you said to the kids, that was so, so brave, Jack."

Jack winces. "I was scared to shit," he says, blandly. "Thought I was going to puke the entire time."

"Maybe so, but you still did it." His dad takes him by both shoulders and shakes him a little. "You are an amazing person, and I am glad I get to know you."

Jack blinks back sudden tears. "Papa," he says, shuffling his feet and glancing around, embarrassed.

"Non, non." HIs dad gives him another little shake. "I am sorry, for what it's worth."

"I know, Papa. I told you, I'm not mad anymore. And when I was mad, I was mostly mad at myself."

"Jack, I—"

"Papa, I didn't ask you to come with me to make you feel bad. I just wanted you to see something I don't think I've ever managed to put into words."

"You did today, but I know what you're saying. You're right, I needed to see it. I did see it." He taps Jack in the center of his chest. "I see you, Jack."

"Ouais, Papa." Jack smiles a little and leans forward until their foreheads touch. "Ouais."

—

"At least I didn't throw up into a plant."

"I'm divorcing your mother."

—

By the time Jack gets home the photos are all over the internet. Jack knows this because as soon as he walks through the door he's wearing Bitty, who has leapt at him from the shadows and is shimmying up Jack's body like a squirrel up a tree. "Whoa, whoa- Wait-"

"No, no wait." Bitty snuffles at Jack's neck. "Why wait?"

"No, I mean," Jack peels Bitty partially off of him only to get the breath kissed out of him. "Bits!"

"You _yarn bombed_  the _Stanley Cup_." Bitty grabs him by his face and kisses him again. "You told the world about your anxiety and how you _knit_ as a coping method, even though you hate talking about yourself, even to your  _friends_. Hell, you didn't even tell _me_ what you were workin' on, even though I saw you with it all over the house!"

"Sorry, Bits," says Jack. "It's just- That project was just mine for twenty years. Not even my mémère knew what it was, even though she helped me with it before she died. I didn't tell Shitty, either."

"Honey, I won't tell you Moomaw's chicken 'n' dumplings recipe. We're allowed to keep some secrets." Bitty smiles at him. "I bet you feel light as air after sayin' all that."

"Yeah." Jack gives him a crooked grin. "I do. It felt good, and those kids were great. I know not all of them understood everything but if even one of them understands that it's okay to have anxiety and talk about it and how to get help for it, then it was worth it."

Bitty almost growls. "Please Jack, can we just go to bed."

Jack shakes his head and gets his hands under Bitty's thighs, making his way toward the bedroom. "Personal growth really turns you on, eh?" he asks.

"Stop talking and _do me_."

Jack's had a pretty good day.

—

Later, Bitty runs a hand through Jack's damp hair. "By the way," he says. "Shitty texted."

"Yeah?" Jack closes his eyes and leans into Bitty's touch. "What'd he say?"

"He said you're 'an outstanding and graceful fucking echidna'."

"Haha. Wow."

Bitty sniffs. "And he wanted to know when you're going to help him with a jockstrap?"

Jack pulls a pillow over his face and groans.

—fin—

 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I know absolutely nothing about knitting. Thank you Miranda for the knitpick.
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you liked it I'd love to hear from you, and kudos are always appreciated.
> 
> I'm annathaema on the Tumblrs and @annathaemah on the Tweety box! Come bother me!


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